She stops abruptly.
Dead silence for three seconds. The sirens have stopped.
“…Marcus.”
CAMERAMAN: Whispering
“I see it.”
The camera slowly lowers, then tilts to the right. In the glow of a flickering streetlight about thirty feet away, a FIGURE stands in the middle of the road. It is wearing hospital scrubs — or what’s left of them. The fabric is black with blood. Its head is cocked at an unnatural angle, almost resting on its shoulder. Its jaw is weirdly angled—hanging open far too wide, dislocated,swaying slightly. Its eyes catch the light and reflect it back like an animal’s.
It is completely still.
LINDA: Barely a whisper, still holding the microphone to her lips
“…Steve, are you seeing this? Steve, we have a—we have an infected individual approximately thirty feet from our broadcast position. I need to know if the National Guard—”
The figure’s head SNAPS upright with an audible crack.
It takes a step forward.
LINDA:
“Oh God.”
Another step. Faster.
CAMERAMAN:
“WE GOTTA GO. LINDA, WE GOTTA—”
LINDA: Voice rising, still broadcasting, instinct overriding fear.
“We are—if you are in the Bancroft Avenue area, you need to get INSIDE. Lock your doors, do NOT—”
The figure BREAKS into a sprint. Not a run. A sprint. Fast. Too fast. Its arms don’t swing—they hang limp at its sides—but its legs move with a horrible, mechanical speed. A sound comes fromits open mouth—a shrieking, gurgling HOWL that distorts the audio.
The camera jerks violently. The image blurs—pavement, sky, Linda’s face twisted in terror.
LINDA:
“RUN! RUN! MARCUS, RU—”
CRASH. The camera hits the ground. The lens cracks but keeps recording. Sideways angle. Wet asphalt. One of Linda’s heels in frame, then her knees as she falls.
Screaming. Her screaming. Then Marcus screaming.
The figure is ON HER. The camera captures it—the scrubs, the bare feet black with filth, the hands—the fingers are broken, bent backward, and it’s still grabbing—seizing her blazer, her hair, pulling her toward that open jaw—
LINDA: Screaming, guttural, primal
“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF ME! HELP! SOMEONE—”
A WET sound. A sound that should not be on television.
Linda’s scream changes. It becomes something else, something that doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
More shapes appear at the edge of the frame. Three. Five. Coming from the alley Marcus saw earlier. They move toward the noise. Toward her.